Hour Follows Hour
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. AU. Twenty three year old Severus is confronted late one evening by a young woman with 'Mudblood' etched into her arms. She speaks of mysterious truths and a life that should haunt him, but it doesn't - not when the tales come from her lips. A short story of love and time travel, for the 100th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time'. Light M.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Not even the references to Risky Business, the Owl and the Pussycat, and Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game'.

 **A/N: This is very much an AU.** If you're looking for something that works within canon, this is not it ;-)

The following is the gift for the 100th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time', DutchGirl01. This gorgeous woman requested a time-travel oneshot, where our OTP meet in the past and their meeting is enough to have an impact on the future, whether through friendship or otherwise. This got out of hand quickly thanks to the wonderful prompt, so it has become a two part story. This is the first part, and I do hope you will enjoy it. The next has been almost finished, so it will be up within a couple of days after I edit it. Thank you again to everyone that has reviewed 'World Enough and Time' and thank you especially to DutchGirl for providing me with such a lovely platform to launch from.

I often refer to Lily in these stories as being 'Lady D'Arbanville' – anyone familiar with the song will guess why, but if you're not, please search for the lyrics and give it a read. I'm not sure if there's anything that describes Severus better; for all the SS/HG shippers, it's also good to know that the song was originally written about letting go ;-)

* * *

 **Hour Follows Hour**

 **Part one**

I don't care – go on and tear me apart

I don't care if you do

'Cause in a sky full of stars,

I think I saw you.

 _Coldplay_

"Dobby had to help Harry Potter's friend, Master! Dobby had to save her. Dobby had no choice!" The elf stared at Harry, his bug eyes blinking incessantly. The rest of the group were standing around him, encircling the pair.

"But _where_ is she, Dobby? Where did you send her?"

Ron surged forward from beside him and grabbed the shoulders of the elf, shaking him as he yelled, "What have you bloody done with her? Where is she? I swear on my wand, I'll k-"

"Ron!" Bill hauled his younger brother back and pushed him into the cottage. "Enough, Ron! Get inside. This isn't the time-"

"He's taken her, Bill! He's taken Hermione somewhere, I saw her, she was fucking bleeding out – she needs help!"

"Dobby was helping Harry Potter's friend!" the elf cried between self-inflicted blows to his head. "Dobby was only doing what he was told!"

Harry latched on to the words and knelt down to take a firm grip of Dobby's elbow, taking the other in hand when the elf only tried to twist out of his grip to harm himself more. "Dobby – stop! Who told you to do it? Where did you send her? Did you use elf magic?"

"Yes, yes," Dobby whimpered between sobs. "Dobby used elf magic because Dumbledore always told him that if Harry Potter's friends were hurt by dark magic then Dobby must send them to the only one who can fix them!"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the spot of blood in front of Shell cottage. They'd arrived from Dobby's Apparation only moments before after the horrific night in Malfoy Manor, Ron holding Hermione in his arms, until the elf had held onto her hand and flashed away again before returning without the girl who was his sister in all but blood.

" _Where did you send her, Dobby?"_ he hissed, the strain of the entire year building within his stomach until he fought to see through a red haze of anger. "Tell me!"

Dobby gulped and wrung his hands, darting over to the doorway and holding his head inside. The last thing anyone heard before the elf began to slam his head with sickening cracks was a whispered, "Dobby took Harry Potter's best friend to the only one who can save her. Snape is the only one who can save her!"

 **...**

* * *

She came to me in a whirlwind of blood and screams; at the time, I thought that she was on the brink of death. To this day I do not understand how it was that she came to me, of all people, yet come she did.

Her gods-awful jumper hung from her too skinny frame, but it was stuck down to one of her arms from rapidly drying blood. Thrashing about as if the devil himself was after her, the screams that erupted from her mouth would haunt me for years.

Poppy called me at midnight, her stern face bobbing in the fire as she bellowed that I'd, "better wake up and do it _quickly -_ Severus, for Merlin's sake, get _up!"_

We both knew that I was awake, but I growled in response anyway, tugging on a shirt to Floo directly to the Hospital wing. Poppy was a ball of energy, bustling around a bed at the very end of the ward.

"I don't know how she bloody got here, Severus," she barked when she caught sight of me. "One minute I'm having a cuppa and the next she's screaming blue murder on the floor in front of me. There's dark magic all over here, I can almost _smell_ the stench of it."

I hurried to reach her, the tangy, coppery scent of blood flooding my nostrils at the same pace as my striding legs. I was less than eloquent.

"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered, thinking that, yet again, I was about to see a young woman die. Those days were meant to be over – they should've been over. But here this _girl_ was, a handful of years younger than me, though she wasn't recognisable in the slightest. Her hair was wild and matted with blood; it took washing it all out hours later to know that it was the colour of chestnuts and sunshine. She was slim, unhealthily so, and her eyes were darting between Poppy and I like she _knew_ us. She was not afraid, not of us.

She knew me.

I had never seen her before.

I approached her jerking form warily, my wand out and moving quickly, deconstructing the layers of magic that coated her like an oil spill on water. Most of the curses were easy to remove, yet it was plain where the real damage was coming from.

"Fuck."

Poppy shook her head at my whispered expletive, but the girl just looked and looked and looked, wide brown eyes swimming with tears. There was fear that almost overrode the recognition there somehow, and trust – months later I would contemplate the blatant acceptance that reeled me in but on that night, I was helpless to stop myself from reaching out and pressing my hand to her forehead.

"It's all right," I said quietly. "Look at me," I continued, even though she already was. "You're safe here. With us. Safe. Do you understand me?"

I knew I'd made a mistake when she opened her mouth to reply but another scream issued forth instead.

"It's the fucking _Cruciatus,"_ I told Poppy, ignoring her cry of disbelief. The war had ended – recently enough for the horrors to be felt, but it was _over_ – and there was no doubt that there had not been a patient of hers in such a state for years. The girl's limbs were seizing and she threw her head back, the veins in her neck a striking colour of blue against her pale skin. The twitches of her arms and legs were agonising to watch… I knew them as well as my own thoughts. I knew that she would lie like this for hours, writhing and crying on the bed.

But _why?_

It all fell away when the episode ended abruptly. Her chest heaved and she whimpered like a child. I was lost when she raised her arms to me like a babe to be picked up from the floor; she looked at me beseechingly, and then tried to smile. The painful grimace that eventuated made me surprise myself by reaching out to place a single finger to cover her mouth.

"If you can't speak, don't," I said gruffly, fighting the urge to pick her up and hide her away from whoever the fuck had treated her like this. The worst thing was that I was beginning to feel a sickening sense of familiarity with the curses and magic used – there was no shred in me that wanted to poke and prod further to uncover just who had hurt her. It was too real; too much like _those_ days, where the one on the receiving end of such things was… me.

"I can, I can, oh but _fuck,_ it really _fucking hurts,_ " she said between gasps of breath. Just when I thought she would scream again, she spoke in a hurried whisper, "And I'm sorry for my language, Professor Snape – it's you isn't it?" She ignored Poppy, and reached for me again. "Oh God it's you, I know it is – I knew it, I knew you were with us. I'm safe with you, aren't I? This is where I'll be safe?"

Poppy shot me a bewildered look; I returned it tenfold. Returning my attention to the girl, I paused long enough to take another look at her, examining her. The ways to help her were engrained within my brain; Poppy would not be able to do a thing for her.

But I could.

Fuck it.

"Sorry, Poppy," I said roughly. "I don't know who she is, but… bugger it all to hell. This is on my shoulders, yes? Keep it between us for now." I glared when she began to protest, and gestured with a sharp point to the girl, now beginning to seize up again. The screams were silent now; the sight was worse than when they were audible.

Finally, Poppy nodded. "I'll tell Albus. Do what you can. We'll come and check on you both in the morning and find out what her story is."

I bowed my head and stepped closer to the bed. As soon as the tremors finished and she was aware again, she repeated her movements until her arms were searching for me.

This time I answered.

I gathered her up; she weighed less than the first year I'd had to sling over my shoulder a month before. She threw her arms around my neck as if I were her saviour, but all I could think of was that there was another woman who depended on me now, another one whose life was in my hands.

I didn't know her.

I couldn't fail her.

That night, I held her in my arms and walked with her to my chambers, ignoring the Floo to avoid hurting her further. The walk was longer than it had ever been and I ran half of the way, managing to sprint with her for the last lot of corridors and turns.

She whispered to me just before another episode hit her, her strangled voice causing a muscle in my cheek to spasm when her breath ghosted over it. "Thank you."

My answer was to laugh; a bitter, dark laugh. "Live first," I told her, and then thanked whoever or whatever could have been listening in the sky when I managed to fill the bath and get her into the warm water before the screams began again.

I sat on the floor beside her all night, casting charm after charm to keep the heat in. There weren't any bubbles around but a quick spell had the water opaque to return the dignity that had been stolen when I'd had to remove her clothes. I didn't miss the sickening letters carved into the pearl like skin of her arm, nor the older, jagged scar that began just above her breasts and disappeared beneath the water. Any points that the knife had touched were dealt with first, until she had a brand new set of scars instead of wounds. Taking great liberties, I waited until she had fallen asleep within the cocoon of warmth before washing her hair. She was so _small_ , so fragile, like a tiny little bird in my nest.

Potions came next; pain relief, headache relief, bruise pastes, anti-nausea, nerve repairs and finally a smooth, soothing tonic for her throat. She swallowed each from my prompting, her throat soft under my massaging fingers. My mother's words came to me then, previously long forgotten, and I found myself shushing and crooning when she moaned in her sleep, telling her to, "Sleep, sweet girl, it'll be all right, you're here, you're safe, I'll keep you safe."

Eventually, she woke hours later and turned her head to the side and took a deep, shuddering breath. Our eyes met.

"We're not… we're not in 1998, are we?"

* * *

Hermione seemed to be the result of an accident. A strange conundrum; something that sent my fingers flying over the tomes shoved into every corner and case in my quarters. She stayed bundled in blankets and a pair of my old pyjamas on the generously sized four poster bed that dwarfed her body. She was watching me with wide, silent eyes as I moved around the rooms.

"How do you _know_ me?" I asked her, having abandoned the mystery of how on earth a house elf that didn't even serve Hogwarts yet had managed to bring her to the Hospital wing of all places.

She eyed me thoughtfully, her head on the pillow. I pulled a threadbare wingback chair from the corner and pushed it closer then sank down onto it until I could lean forward with elbows on knees to meet her gaze. The fire was roaring, casting a gentle, golden heat into the small bedroom.

Her hair was damp and piled up on her head, the result of a haphazard twist I'd arranged it into. Bruises were beginning to ripen on her delicate features; the paste I'd applied whilst she slept would mean that she'd look a right bloody mess for a day or so as the natural healing process of her body accelerated, but she'd be as good as new within three days. A strange thought, really, considering that I had no fucking idea what 'good as new' meant for this unnerving girl.

Hermione – for I had learnt her name when she'd woken in the bath; the uniqueness meant it would never be forgotten – cleared her throat and stared at my knee that was only a foot away from her face.

Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and hoarse and I bent closer to hear her. "How old are you, Professor?"

Surprising myself (and her, judging by the colouring of her cheeks), I laughed. "Bloody hell. That's the first thing that you want to know? You come hurtling in from the future, and you want to know how old I am? I've never even met you."

"But I've met _you!"_ She was so convinced that it was disarming. Her eyes flashed with determination, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position. "You don't believe me."

"I do," I said carefully, considering my words seriously. "But you're telling a twenty three year old bloke that you know him as a thirty eight year old. It's a bit… mad."

She sniffed haughtily and crossed her arms over her chest. Fuck me, she was pretty. I coughed.

"Well," she began, "don't you think that life is ' _mad_ '? I mean, god, we use wands and do things that should be in fairy tales! Yet here we are, casting spells-"

"Falling into the past," I butted in with a small smirk then continued when she tossed me an indignant harrumph, "Look – it's bleeding obvious that something terrible has happened to you." I tried to ignore her wince; I couldn't, and so my hand found its way to her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before I soldiered on, though not before filing away her small squeak of surprise at my touch. "And you're safe here. That's the most important thing. Honestly, I've never met you before – not when I was a student here, nor more recently as a teacher. And I reckon I'm the last man that you'd want to be saddled with. If you're telling the truth, that is."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and frowned, then grabbed one of my hands and sandwiched it within her small grasp. I looked down, puzzled at the familiar gesture but Merlin himself knew that I craved touch thanks to being starved of it; I couldn't quite bring myself to extricate my hand.

"You're _wrong,_ " she said with a vehemence that floored me. My smile emerged unbidden, inspired by the mysterious truth in her tone. I watched, transfixed, as her eyes darted to my mouth, and then crinkled at the corners.

"All right," I gave her a short half bow. "Let's say that you're right. What do you suppose you are actually doing here?"

Her answer was so matter-of-fact that it left me speechless. "You're the one who was _supposed_ to heal me, of course. Obviously there was no one else capable at the time."

"Ah. And now that you're healed, you'll be popping back I assume?"

"I don't know…" she trailed off and tilted her head, her eyes blank. "I don't _feel_ like I'll be going anywhere. But I don't really feel…"

"What? Keep talking; this is better than going to the pictures."

"Oh, ha bloody ha," she snarled then clapped her hands over her mouth. "Sorry sir."

I snorted and shook my head. "I'm not your Professor, Hermione. Christ, I'm no one to you. Not at the moment. Keep going."

She made a little sound of disagreement but soon shrugged and said, "I should be upset. I was … doing something important. This is quite terrible timing, to be honest. But I'm not. I feel … well, like you said really. I just feel safe. With you. And this last year has just been utter shit, so I'm not as bothered as I should be. Besides, I'll only be here for a little while."

"Oh." My voice was flat; I was disappointed, though it pissed me off to admit it. This strange girl – _woman –_ had suddenly elbowed her way into my life. Whereas before I'd taught and pottered around alone, cooking meals for myself to avoid the Great Hall, now there was someone in my _bed,_ like she had every right to be there. She wanted to be there, so I suppose she did.

Hermione was on my mind so strongly that it masked the fact that, generally, there was nothing else on my mind at all. Not even Lily. Thinking of her always filled me with such bitterness that I had to drink myself blind to get out of it. The pain was still so fresh; she'd only left the world a few short years ago… because of me. And this smiling, bubbling, warm girl had plonked herself into my days, giving me a direction away from my Lady D'Arbanville. Years from the moment that I acknowledged that I was heading down a dangerously familiar road, I would rant and rave, I would destroy my chambers time and time again, I would fall to my knees and beg Lily to return to me, to forgive me for my weakness that came in the form of this girl. But such twisted hate took years to develop; it was far from my mind as I sat there with her, listening to her every breath.

Hermione was a distraction, and I latched onto it more eagerly than an infant at the breast.

I needed to be in someone else's story for a while; my own was already shot to shit.

She turned away and spoke to the wall, "I don't feel like… how to explain it… I don't feel as if I'm attached to this place. Physically. The air feels different… thinner, somehow. But I think I'll be here long enough for us to be friends. Can we? Be friends? Bloody ridiculous, I know, but I've always thought we'd get on well. And… and I want to stay here. With you. Bugger what anyone else says, I'm not leaving." Hermione's head snapped back and she fixed me with a glower. "Don't make me go. I don't have anywhere else _to_ go!"

Well, fuck.

I spluttered and shifted so my hair hid my face. "If it is agreeable to the Headmaster-"

"Bugger the Headmaster!"

"I'd rather not," I said stiffly, my stern expression cracking slightly under the pressure of her peals of laughter. "If he deems it acceptable and appropriate"- because he controlled every bloody facet of my life, this was sure to come under that massive umbrella –"then… then I would not be averse to you staying."

"Staying _here?_ " she pressed, reaching out to put her hands on my knees and digging in. I hissed, shocked at the contact, but she cocked an eyebrow and made a clucking sound with her tongue.

"Ah…" I winced as her nails dug in uncomfortably. "Fine. Here."

* * *

I began to fall in love with Hermione Granger. Fuck, who am I kidding – I already half loved her from the moment she offered her arms to me from the hospital bed as if I was the only one she trusted in the world.

She told me everything. _Everything._

Albus was told first, of course – he strolled in early the morning after she arrived and the little minx strutted into the sitting room in my track pants and white dress shirt, and demanded that he take an Unbreakable vow never to disclose to anyone ("bar Severus Snape!") what she was about to reveal. The old goat was flummoxed – it took him five minutes and three Sherbet Lemons to stop blinking like a deer caught in the hunt. I simply sat to the side, staring at this little lioness that was perched on the worn out couch beside me; her eyes never left the Headmaster's, and her hand never left my knee.

Albus didn't speak for hours afterward. He left not long after entering her mind and seeing everything, but he seemed… _proud_ of this girl, this girl with her hand on my knee.

And then she waited while I quickly read up on Legilimency (barely believing that I was a master of it in her time) and cast the spell.

I saw everything: her life on the run, Bellatrix fucking Black (who now had a death wish), the death of the Headmaster at _my_ hand, the young Potter boy, my double life.

I would think on it all later, I decided. Let Albus study it all, lose sleep and make plans. Fuck it all; didn't I at least deserve to have some reprieve after being dealt such a god-awful hand? When Hermione left, I would think on it. I had years, after all, something that made my chest uncomfortably tight. I had fifteen years until she would even remember this little sojourn to the past; to me. I would regret that later; I should've asked more questions.

Never had someone given me so much while expecting nothing in return. Never had the greasy git of the dungeons been trusted so completely; had I ever been anyone's first choice?

"You're mine. My first choice," she said simply, pushing me to realise that I'd spoken aloud.

* * *

She stayed in my quarters, never once leaving them. Approval had of course been granted – it was a given when she refused to say anything to Albus unless he allowed her to stay with me. No one else knew, bar Poppy, myself and the Headmaster. The war might have been over, we may have had time to plan our next steps when it would all begin again, but the risk was still as real as she was.

Poppy brought her some clothes from the deepest depths of the castle where the 'lost and found' buckets were. Personally, I wasn't shocked when Hermione politely took the clothes but kept her habit of wearing whatever of mine her little hands could dig up.

I could believe, here in the darkness of the night, with her soft tiny snores echoing through the room from the second, newly transfigured bed against the other wall, that she was sent purely for me. To trust me, to be a companion of sorts. Was it right? Possibly not. Was it strange? Utterly. It was selfish, too, but I was too far gone to bother with that.

And yet I cared for her. The days passed and there was no avoiding just how much her presence was welcome; she read aloud in the evenings, her tone snooty and haughty, but I drank it up as if I were dying of thirst. She spent hours each day telling me what I'd see in my future, giving me tidbits, sharing aspects of her life. I learned to hate a sod named Ron, but the feeling left quickly when the understanding dawned that this idiot boy had never sat with Hermione the way I did – with her in my shirts, her hair falling on my floors and clogging the drain. Fuck Ronald Bilius Weasley.

And as I slowly accepted that I cared for her, I began to covet her. There was never anyone more coveted than Hermione Granger. I should know; I've always been a master at wanting what I couldn't have. And why not? I was then as I am now; lank, stringy hair, too tall, too thin, hook nosed, rude, gruff… the adjectives are endless.

But how to show it? How to tell her that she was everything, that she had begun to spread through my blood like _fiendfyre,_ that I couldn't concentrate on marking or planning or anything all really, because all my hands ever wanted was to touch her?

She made it hard; excruciatingly so. She sat close to me on the couch, and if we walked the hallways late at night, there was only a sliver of space between us. Almost as if I were blind and she was my guide; I would have accepted the charade eagerly if our fingers were entwined, but as it was… how to tell her?

I shouldn't.

I didn't want… I _don't_ want to get hurt. Not again. Not ever.

But… fuck.

* * *

She'd been with me for a week when we established a routine. I showered first in the early mornings while she tossed and growled obscenities because my fumbling around disturbed her sleep. She read all of my books and rearranged them, ignoring my gaping mouth and incensed storming out of the room. I returned from classes to have lunch with her on the tiny two-person table that she transfigured from doorstops. She had nightmares for days after the attack; I understood that, too. Again, Mam's voice was in my mind as I repeated the soothing words, smoothing a hand slowly over her hair while she inserted herself within my arms and wept, leaving damp spots on my cotton shirts.

Sometimes I would take her to class with me and let her sit at my desk disillusioned; it hurt to stand for the double lessons, but the little faint scratch of her quill on parchment as she listened to my lectures was reward enough. I set her up in my private lab next to the classroom, and when I taught the NEWT level students, I left the door open slightly. No one ever heard the girl brewing on her own in the other room. I did. I found any excuse at all (until I decided that I needed no excuse) to check on her, to stir with her, to catch her blush when she saw how I watched her.

And then she began to teach _me_.

I came to our quarters (they became ours so quickly) one night after a patrol, and she was sitting with her feet tucked under her body, staring into the fire. I paused in the doorway and when she turned, her face was golden and her eyes dark. A hand reached out to the door frame; I had to steady myself against the overwhelming wave of desire. It was suffocating.

She walked towards me slowly, a look of intense concentration on her pretty features. Her horrid hair stuck out every which way; I wanted it to ensnare me. She wore my dress shirt with her now clean jeans. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. I wasn't sure if she'd ever been more beautiful.

Opening her button mouth, she smiled and said, "If the world was on fire, no one could save me but you."

I coughed and spluttered and spluttered and coughed and coughed and spluttered some more. It took every tooth in the top of my mouth to bite my tongue hard enough to stop myself from asking her to sail away with me for a year and a day, to eat quince with a spoon and sit hand in hand on the edge of the sand.

"What?"

She smiled again and laughed. "I thought we might talk about… other things from the future. Music, films. Books, of course. That's my favourite song – the one I just said."

"Oh." My face fell but recovered instantly. "All right. How are we going to go about this?" I held up my satchel that was filled with essays. "I have to finish these first…"

"I'll help you," she said firmly.

"You're not mean enough."

She grabbed the satchel and walked towards my desk. "I can be," she threw over her shoulder. My eyes were trained on her arse.

"Well… all right." I faltered then gathered myself. "All right, then."

It was the wrong decision.

We marked together and then she got up with a twirl and giggled before bending down to slide off her jeans. I gawked at her, and then tried so bloody unsuccessfully to stop staring at her long, long legs.

"Nnnghh," I mumbled, cheeks furiously red. "What… what are you doing?"

"Showing you! Hang on. I've got all of our props ready. Take off your pants, but keep your socks on, would you?"

"Fuck, I've never been seduced so quickly." It was out before I could rein it in, but she snorted and chortled and blushed. Disarmingly so.

She giggled again and ran out into the corridor; students never came down to the very ends of the castle, and so she often walked along it at night. I stood at the end, then promptly fell over when she appeared with smart black sunglasses, her white socks pulled up to her calves. I wasn't about to tell her that the torches on the wall illuminated her body through the white button up shirt; I was no saint, after all.

"What is all of this?"

"From a film that's coming out soon!"

"Eh?"

She didn't reply, instead the corridor was filled with the sound of her hoots of laughter when she ran and skidded along it, her hands out for balance as she struck a pose. The socks carried her for metres.

"Ta-da!"

"Oh god." Muggle sayings flooded through me with no end in sight. "Bloody hell. You're mental. Mad. Barking mad."

Her powers of persuasion were strong in those days, or maybe I was simply extra susceptible. When her soft pink lips touched my cheek and she ducked her head shyly, I raked a hand through my hair and told her I'd give her the world.

Even if the world meant skidding through the dungeons without my bloody pants and in sunglasses that I could barely see through. I gave her that, too.

* * *

She stayed for another fortnight before she began to breathe differently. I couldn't put my finger on it; it was as if she was on the top of a mountain, trying to work through the altitude. I'd had a month with her, of living with her, and loving her. It wasn't enough.

"I think I'll be gone soon," she said, her brows puckered together in a puzzled frown. "I don't feel very solid anymore."

It was true. She'd fattened up over the last three weeks with me, but now the weight was beginning to fall off of her again. She would fit into that jumper of hers soon.

"When?" The question came out gruff and short, to hide the knife stuck between my ribs. "When are you leaving?"

"I'm not leaving out of choice," she said softly, setting down her book and coming to fold herself up beside me on the couch. "I'd stay here forever if I could. But I can't."

"No," I agreed in a whisper. "I suppose you can't."

"You healed me," she said next, her hand on my knee again. This time her head came to rest on my shoulder and no fucks were given when I gave in to the urge to tuck her into my side, my arm around her shoulders. I let my head fall onto the back of the couch.

"I did."

"And you kept me safe."

"Yes."

"Maybe we should get married, then."

I laughed and laughed and laughed until tears coursed down my cheeks. "You're amusing when you're feeling morbid."

"Am I?"

"Very."

She burrowed into the crook of my neck. Her hair tickled my chin. "The truth is…" her breath was warm on my skin. I swallowed and made a faint grunt in my throat to encourage her to continue. She nodded, more to herself than to me. "The truth is," she said, clearly and firmly, "I'm completely and utterly in love with you, Severus. And I know that you don't see me that way – you never will at all, I don't think, judging by the past that I remember – but I can't help it. I don't want to leave you, not now, not ever."

I forgot how to breathe.

"How could you love me? I've seen me in your memories… I'm so _old._ And you're so… so…"

"So?"

"So beautiful," I finished lamely. She sat up and reached out a shaking hand to touch my cheek. Hating myself for it, I leaned into her touch.

I barely heard her whispered, "Do you really think I'm beautiful?"

"Gods," I said immediately. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. It hurts to look at you, to know that I can't have you."

Every word was true. She was real; flesh and blood. She was my redemption, a vessel for forgiveness for all of the sins I'd committed. I almost didn't want to continue further because how could such a goddess, such an angel, ever keep her head and heart when I was the one who loved her? I destroy everything I touch.

But I was selfish.

"And do you…" she paused and leaned closer. The world stopped. "Do you want… to have me?"

No time like the present. "I think I was such a bastard, more than usual, in your time because I couldn't have you and hold you. I want you more than anything. But we can't…"

"Will you let me be the judge of that?"

I stared at her, shy all of a sudden. I should have been a better man. I should have said no.

"Yes."

Her kiss, when it came, was fire and ice and ecstasy. I slid my tongue into her mouth and let my body sink into the couch as she crawled over and sat astride my lap, her hips rolling and rocking until my treacherous throat gave out a strangled moan. I would've finished in my trousers like a wanking third year if she didn't push herself from my embrace and take my hand to lead me to the bedroom.

* * *

The feel of her, of being within her, being consumed by her, was the end of me. I lost my sense of reason, lost my control and self-loathing for each second that I was inside of her, kept snug within her warmth. Every cry from her mouth, every touch of her body, sent me further down the spiral until my mouth was suckling on her breast, tongue flicking over the sensitive skin while I drove into her, her delicate ankles crossed and pressing into my hips to urge me on.

For all of my flowery words, the only thing in my head was, _fuck, my cock is in her, and she's finally here with me, fucking hell, so tight, fuck –_

And her body… gods. There was none of Lily's curvaceous lines; Hermione's hips were almost as sharp as mine. But she fit underneath me as if she'd been made for me. Our scars matched in places, and I found myself bending to lick each silvery line that my tongue could find.

I couldn't believe it when she came apart under me, her head thrown back, hair all over the pillow. I'll never forget it; the way her skin tasted like salt from her sweat, how my fingers – usually so inept in such circumstances – found her clit and stroked until she screamed, how her long slim fingers dug into my arse while her teeth bit into my neck. She branded me. I would never complain.

"So fucking beautiful," I managed, trading eloquence for honesty. "Your tits are the loveliest things I've ever seen." In my defence, I was twenty three. And they were. They still are.

Her answering laugh rang out through the room.

Her skin was like silk as I pushed into her again and again; her dangerous smile was all the warning I was given before she turned over in my arms until she was laying on her stomach, my body above her.

"Oh, oh gods, fuck Hermione!"

I slid into her, pausing every now and then to glance down and see how I disappeared underneath her pert little backside. As if to torment me further, she shoved a pillow underneath her so she was raised just high enough so engulf me completely.

Fuck.

This was better than… better… better than anything in my sad little life thus far.

The light from the charmed window in our bedroom turned to dusk, bathing her in a blanket of grey. And she was mine.

* * *

"What are we going to do?"

"I'll wait for you," I said simply. The decision came quickly; her naked body was pressed over mine, her leg slung over my thighs. I'd wait for a lifetime for her, if I had to. Besides, what else had my life been? I'd waited for magic as soon as Mam had told me of it at two and a half. I'd waited for Lily for what felt like an age. For this… beautiful, sweet Hermione in my arms, I could wait for, too. At least I thought I could.

"For fifteen years? It's so long for you, Severus. How can I make you do such a thing? It'd be like being enslaved."

"I could think of worse things to be enslaved to. Have you not shown me that I will know hell? Yes? Then grant me this. Go back and live as long as you need to so that I can see you again. I don't care if you only have to wait weeks or months. I'll wait years. Fuck everything else." I thought I would scare her with surety, but she only nuzzled closer.

"God, I don't want anything else," she whispered into my chest. "There's nothing I'll ever want more. You're everything. Nothing compares to you."

"Did you mean it?" My voice broke at the end.

"Mean what? Oh." Of course she knew what I meant. "That I loved you? I meant it. I love you. I love you, I love _you_ , I _love_ you."

I turned our bodies around until I was over her, safely ensconced between her thighs. She eyed me with a slow smile filled with feminine secrets when we both felt my desire rise for her again. "Say it again," I ordered breathlessly, eyes roaming over her face. "I can't believe it."

She shrugged, her hand already reaching down to line me up with her entrance. "I love you. I'll always love you. Every day from now until we see each other again, know that you are loved."

I pushed into her slowly, carefully, gently. My head fell so that our foreheads met. "And I you, Hermione," I mumbled nervously against her lips. "I do love you... More than my life, not that that's saying much."

"It's saying _everything,_ " she replied, tilting her hips in welcome.

I was so, so lost in her.

* * *

And then she was gone. The next day, she left in the blink of an eye. The elf flashed back into view and grabbed her hand, clicking his fingers so she was clothed again in her now clean old outfit. I clutched at her hand, promising her the earth, shouting that I loved her, that I'd die for her, and all the while her sweet voice was in my mind, in the air, repeating that she loved me, that she always would, that she would wait for me if I would wait for her.

* * *

 _tbc._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please note the changing tense as we return to the present.**

I'm blown away by everyone's responses. How wonderful. I'm so glad you've all enjoyed the story. I almost wish I could go on and on… if only I had twenty fingers to type with instead.

As before, the concept of this story was given to me in a prompt by the wonderful DutchGirl01. Send her Severus dreams, please and thank you.

 _There is an epilogue. I will post it today, so make sure you don't miss it. I know I'm not alone in thinking that canon Severus, if he had to die, deserved a much better, more detailed, death than he got. So, no cliffhangers as I'll add the epilogue as soon as I can, but I think he deserved a chapter to himself. And, by the way - bugger the canon._

* * *

 **Hour Follows Hour**

 **Part Two**

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

 _e.e. cummings_

 _._

As soon as I step inside the doors of the Shrieking Shack, I know. There is no doubt in it; it spreads throughout my veins, as sure as the killing curse that awaits me. Or will it be by the Cruciatus? Fire covering nerves until it consumes; first with madness, then with death.

Perhaps my own curse? A slash of light to strike my limbs, my chest? Hermione didn't tell me this… she told me of dark days, horrible days, but never this. I know now that she didn't have a clue what would happen, that the Trio were flying blind. They still are; they are somewhere in the castle, in that great big castle.

I must give her time.

There is a certain elegance in my gift, after all; I have given her fifteen years of emotions that have run from love to hate to all consuming need. It seems fitting that my ending should give her a beginning.

For the first time in years, the weight of my steps is heavy. Dragon hide boots covered my stride for endless nights of patrols, of walks to her, but on this night the floor creaks under my feet.

It is chilling.

She will be here somewhere. Gods, I do not want her to be. I can almost feel her… I am inside now, and Riddle is talking, but all I can do is arrange my face and hope to fucking Merlin that it doesn't show that I can smell the scent of her, my beautiful Hermione; peaches and roses and something that is uniquely her.

He speaks of the Elder wand and there is a little intake of breath somewhere behind him; the arrogant fool does not hear anyone but himself, and so he does not notice, but _I_ do. I notice – I know that small, tiny gasp; that short rising of the chest.

I have heard it so many times; I know it as well as the way her mouth curves around the syllables of my name. Not in a snake-like butchering that makes my skin crawl – _Ssseveruss_ – but in a caress, a brush of affection. Severus. Sometimes, ' _please_ Severus, _yes,_ Severus'. And in her long ago state of bliss: 'my Severus'.

To think that I should die now, with my sweet witch crouched behind the old, musty windows… to think that I should die, and know that I belong to her _finally._ That this is the first time she has seen me since returning yet it will also be the last… Ironic, is it not?

The fifteen years without her were almost laughable in their awfulness. I held onto her solidly for three years; I cast a fucking stasis charm on the pillow she used the last night she was with me, when our bodies were fused together in the cool air that pervades the dungeons. It was not cool that night; no, our skin was bathed in sweat, in lapping tongues and searching fingers. For three years I was a man in love.

I was patient.

My descent into madness and frustration was slow; I wonder now, as Riddle looks at the beast of a snake beside him, whether I began to go mad when she left. Maybe before.

Regardless, I was a lovesick bastard. The Occlumens she'd known became me, and I used my newfound skills for hours each day to stop the ever present longing. I used it to trick my mind into believing that a smooth skinned woman was Hermione as I slammed into her body from behind; eventually, other cries of pleasure that came from mouths that were not as sweet became hers, too.

I was lost. I still am.

She was two women to me; the child that walked through the doors in 1991 with terrible hair and meticulously clean albeit huge front teeth. That night, my stomach emptied itself over and over again – I was a sick, lecherous sod for the excitement that spread through my veins, thinking ' _finally, finally, just seven years to go!'_ when all the while she was prepubescent. That woman set fire to my robes – insufferable chit! She stunned me, she stole from me. I knew all of this in advance, of course.

I bought every single one of the S.P.E.W. badges in the staff room (with the full stops between letters, please and fucking thank you).

I wore my oldest robes and sprinkled whiskey on the bottom corners (before spelling the smell away) so her fire could set them aflame that much quicker.

And when I insulted her teeth (because she told me I couldn't _not)_ and she disappeared to cry, I sent my pay for that month to some charity that she'd left the pamphlet for on a desk in the library. It didn't make it any easier.

But I was far from perfect. I blasted a rosebush behind the spot where she'd told me Krum had kissed her during the Yule Ball. When they scampered out and she stammered a mortified apology, I hated myself for ruining her little teenage dream. And so I let McLaggen kiss her, not even understanding that she didn't want it because I couldn't even look at them. I gave him detention, giving the excuse of his stupidity, when in reality I was furious at my possessive anger.

The second woman was the one that loved me. For I still let her voice run through my mind on occasion: ' _know that you are loved.'_

Merlin… Everything I had wanted, she gave. And yet she was just a dream; the more she grew older, the more the dream left me. I knew she would travel and come to me eventually, to love me and then rip herself away, but the bitterness she inspired permeated everything. I could not look at her without being covered in hate and fear and revulsion, mixed with a sickening hope.

We listened to her, in the end. For that is how I filled my days after she left, with Albus, holed up in my chambers so as not to draw attention to my always heading in and out of his office. Our plan was foolproof. I hated it. He was a ruthless bastard, Albus, in those days, and even more so later. I had no choice – if I disagreed too much, he would quietly suggest that maybe Hermione shouldn't come back to me, that maybe he shouldn't tell that house elf to use his magic and let her come to me.

I'd never had much faith in Albus, but if I had any left, it was gone the first time such a threat issued from his mouth.

His tenacity was frightening. He knew that Hermione's memories were the key to ending everything; he knew that what we saw in her mind was the only way to succeed. And we didn't even know that we would succeed! He seemed to think we would. I would be Judas, of course.

He did what he did best. He manipulated every fucking thing that met us. It was like manipulating to me, anyway, living within it. In reality, he was merely echoing everything that Hermione had shown us. I'd seen it all before in her mind, but that hadn't stopped me from half hoping that it would be changed because how could anyone accept to treat children in such a way?

Potter? Left for Petunia sodding Evans (or whatever she went by in those days) to apply her own form of torture to the child. That hurt more than knowing that Albus was truly callous (in my own adolescence, I'd thought of him that way, but thinking is different to _knowing_ ). Lily's child, with Lily's eyes.

Fuck Albus.

The ring? He put it on himself, with full knowledge of what would happen – all for the sodding 'Greater Good'. His bleeding heart knew no bounds, or so he wanted me to believe; as if it was more than convenient that he could use Draco as an excuse, when in reality he was running a tight ship like a warlord. He ticked off the boxes on Hermione's list obsessively.

And _Hermione!_ Beautiful Hermione. Intelligent, witty, snarky, snooty Hermione. I could've killed him with my bare hands when he suggested I go to a book release on the night she was Petrified; he knew I'd spent my time wrapped up in her rather than painstakingly copying down everything she'd told us, and so he was well aware that I didn't remember every bloody date. I should have been there. I wasn't. Because of him.

I'd always been terrible at the curse; could never bring myself to mean it enough. In the first war I was a lackey, a fool, because I couldn't even Avada someone. When I turned coat, I was even worse.

But that was before this nightmare. This twisted, terrible nightmare. When he told me to kill him, I thought that my life was over. And with good reason: how could Hermione ever continue to love a man that had murdered at wand point? Her memories only lasted to a point where I was the anti-christ. Until the night on the Astronomy Tower, I'd still kept up dreaming like an adolescent that Albus would come and say: "All right, we don't have to change anything else boy, but let's change this – because you have the right to exist in this world, just as much as anyone else."

Yes – it's all quite embarrassing to admit now, while staring at the monster that will kill me. Bloody hell. What a cock-up.

But I will have the last laugh. I will.

I'd expected this: my death. And not just my death, but I'd had niggling thoughts of how Albus would let loose with his senility the way he did before his end.

I had my boxes to be ticked, too. And when he planned, I plotted. Not for the Horcruxes, not for the 'Greater Good'. No – I plotted for the future. For Hermione. To be able to leave with her when it was all over, and not to be sent to Azkaban. Quite selfish, but I think I've earned the right to make my own choices, yes? And failing that, that I would die with a cleared name, so that if she wanted to take a stand publicly, declare her love for me, she wouldn't be carted off to the prison on the rock without me to watch over her.

Poppy became the woman of the hour, of the age. She had known _my_ Hermione, after all. And who would suspect a school nurse of having Occlumency skills that kept out Dumbledore? Exactly - which is why I taught her. She was a natural. One entered her mind and found recitations of lectures she'd attended instead of nights when we got so blindingly pissed that we cried at the hell our lives would become.

Never underestimate a school nurse.

Poppy told who she wanted – I had faith in her, I still do. Anyone she told was worthy of knowing what I had been assigned to do for 'The Plan'. In the end (which is technically now, I suppose), I had a stone wall of supportive women. Fitting, really, when it was men that had made my life a heap of shite.

The outside world believed I was the anti-christ while Headmaster. Well – as Hooch so eloquently put it one evening – the outside world could fuck themselves off of a cliff.

I've always liked Hooch.

And Trelawney. I know. I fucking know. Godric's bollocks - I still don't understand it, yet the mad old bat sought me out one night and gave me one long, owlish look. I nodded and she sighed with… well, relief. Not long after, it came to light that she'd begun to stroll around the castle late at night, uncannily finding hiding spots of students running from the Carrows. Each one was taken back to their quarters disillusioned with cups of tea that held a generous splash of sherry. I pretended not to notice either facts, because she shared her sherry with me, too.

The Trio still went on their desperate search for Horcruxes. There was no other option in the end. I tried – oh, how I tried, to fight Albus on it. I should've fought harder.

Why didn't I fight harder?

By the time I realised how truly terrible it would be for Hermione in that tent, though, Albus was already dead by my hand and that was the end of that.

I can recall now, as I stare at Riddle's red eyes, one night where I myself conjured a full bathroom adjacent to their tents. Sometimes I would leave bags of tinned food by the borders of her wards. I indulged myself one night when I came across her crying and curled over on the ground; I brushed against the wards just twice – enough to have her sit up and then feel something comforting, something almost like home. She stopped crying at the same time that I started.

Snivellus. It always was rather accurate.

I stayed hidden in the darkness; Hermione had always been a terrible liar, and would have given away that it was me. That was the worst part: knowing that she was so close to leaving and encountering me in my past, and not being able to comfort her, to ease her into it and out of it. The Trio were being tracked every second of the day; I had no chance at all. And so Potter, Hermione and fucking Weasley (I never did learn to like Ronald) were on their own – for the most part.

I fell in love with her more when I knew she'd returned from me. There was a note sent to Poppy (the above reproach nurse) in neat cursive writing. Just one tiny sentence:

' _Know that you are loved.'_

That I should find her again so close to my ending…

Bittersweet, indeed.

My sweet, sweet girl.

What an unexpected gift she is now, at the end. When I pondered this on the walk to the Shack, I thought that I did not want her to see me as I am now, frightened and facing my fucking death, probably about to piss in my trousers.

Now I just want her.

I want you, Hermione.

Where are you?

Riddle is droning on and on, questioning my loyalty (the bloody idiot), making insinuations. I do my best, though it is not my best, not really, because if I have to die then I'll die for _her_ and she will damn well know it. I'll give Potter what he needs to be the sacrificial lamb – what a bleeding waste – but it was _all_ for her.

And then it comes. From out of nowhere, from right in front of me.

That snake. I should have _known_ that it would be the snake.

I hate snakes.

Fuck-

Once, twice.

Again.

 _Fuck!_

It hurts, it hurts, no words, I can't- just –

Oh gods. How-

Why-

Potter is the first one I see.

I can see Hermione's shoes. They're caked in dried mud – poor sweet girl, sod off Weasley-

I give it a try: being honest. I bring it all up; Lily, Hermione, my guilt, my attempt at atonement. Potter – _Harry –_ is worth it. Isn't that a charitable thought?

Take the memories, Potter. Good.

Will I see him? Wherever it is that I will go – will I see him? Probably not. Hell will be without Hermione, so surely I will be in hell.

" _Look at me!"_

He does. So does she. I can hear her little trembling breaths. Beautiful girl. It's all for you, don't you see? Wait, wait, let me see you-

I should try, I will try, just let me move my head – move a little – fuck, hurts, _gods –_ Hermione-

Where?

There, behind Potter, _fucking move Potter,_ "Her…"

"What's he saying, what's he saying?"

"I don't know!" she cries but she does, she _does,_ because suddenly Potter tumbles to the side and she is _here,_ with terrible hair to ensnare me and that jumper, that jumper she was in when she landed in the Hospital wing and reached out her arms for me to save her, gods all I want is to escape with her, fuck it hurts-

"Severus?"

I can't see her friends gaping at her, hissing questions at taking the liberty with my name, _fuck-_

There is a bubbling in my stomach, a feeling of overflowing, of something rich and choking and _shite_ it tastes like blood – that I should die with the taste of blood in my mouth and not of her –

"H…"

"Severus! No no no no no, enough, enough Severus, not like this, not now- Severus!"

There is a tired groan coming from somewhere and instinctively I know that it is _me,_ I am making this noise, this gurgling, gasping sound, fucking pitiless and pointless, gods-

I want to tell her. I will tell her. There is only one thing she should know before I leave her, because I _will_ leave her – there is one thing I want to say before she knows about the memories, I want her to hear it from _my_ lips and not have her have to see it in the pensieve because I didn't reply to her bloody letter, I couldn't, there was no _way_ to reply. Just a short, tiny sentence, she has said it to me before but fuck I need to say it, I want to say it, gods it hurts and I can't even-

I wheeze and –

* * *

"He's not breathing, he's not breathing!"

"Hermione – leave it! Leave him! He doesn't deserve it!"

"Piss _off,_ Ron! Oh god, oh god oh god oh god-"

She wails and strikes her own chest like a Mediterranean grandmother in mourning, her fingers digging into Severus' coat, before they move to dive into her beaded bag –

* * *

I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't _breathe_ –

* * *

"Severus!"

She pushes at Harry, shoving him back down the small corridor. Ron follows. Of course he did; always a fucking follower, except when he _wasn't,_ except when he _left_ and scampered off like Scabbers.

"Oh god, sweetheart, love, Severus, my Severus, where are your _potions,_ I _told_ you, keep them _with you all the time!"_

* * *

Did she?

I can't remember.

I can't remember anything.

There's… nothing.

It's almost peaceful, if the woman I wanted to have my children and be my wife wasn't inadvertently letting her tears fall into my open mouth.

I might just…

I might just stay here.

It's-

It's not so terrible, not when she has _time,_

Oh, but I love you, Hermione.

I love –

* * *

 _tbc._


	3. Chapter 3: Epilogue

I link all of my stories together in subtle and not so subtle ways. If anyone can catch how this ties into 'As Is' (there are two places where it does), I'll write you a drabble of your choice. A drabble, mind you. Otherwise you'll be coming at me with whips for abandoning 'World Enough and Time' because all of your ideas are far better than mine. **FYI: Drabbles can be found in a separate fic under my profile named 'Spare Parts'. Enjoy!**

For some reason, this fic knocked me around emotionally so I will give myself a day or so before starting back on the other story.

* * *

 **Hour Follows Hour**

 **Epilogue**

Hour follows hour like water in a river  
And from one to the next we don't know what each hour will deliver  
We just call it like we see it, call it out loud as we can  
And then afterwards we call it all water over the dam

 _Ani DiFranco_

 _._

I came to Hermione in a whirlwind of blood and screams; at the time, I was on the brink of death. I _was_ dead. To this day I do not understand how it was that I came to, safe within her wire thin arms. I did.

My beautiful, sweet girl.

I can tell her, now. I do. I wake in the morning and freeze my bollocks off because she's stolen the bedcovers and _still_ I say, "Beautiful girl, sweet girl, give me back the bloody blanket or I'll push you out of bed."

Or something that is as equally charming.

She brought me to Australia, the clever little minx. I haven't ever asked how she managed to bring me back to life, but she mumbled something once like, "Bezoar, mouth to mouth, bezoar, dittany, mouth to mouth and sheer Gryffindor determination you grumpy old sod." I didn't ask, not really, because it took my voice months to return and such an inane question wasn't worth the effort, not when I could use my throat to push out, "I love you, foolish woman," instead.

I received an Order of Merlin, then promptly sent it back when my wife (yes, fuck you Albus – she married me in a sticky, humid room in Bali) was sent a second class next to my first.

It was a tame option, considering Hermione threw hers into the Bass Strait.

The Bass Strait is the body of water that divides our home from the mainland. We live at the end of the world, now. Or at least it seems that way. Tasmania is as low as we could get, as far away as we could get, and bloody hell, it feels like it. Sometimes it gets colder than winter at Hogwarts used to be; the enchanting thing is that when we're feeling adventurous, we Apparate into Hobart on hot summer afternoons and meander through Salamanca markets and can be back in time to feel the chill descending on our property on the far North coast of the island. It gets pretty bloody cold at night, to quote the locals.

Hermione hasn't changed, not really. She's still slim, still witty enough to have me gawking and speechless. Her hair crackles with her indignation when Weasley falls through our Floo, but Harry and Ginevra have her spinning circles and shrieking with joy. Poppy, too, which is always amusing to watch. She comes once a month, with Hooch and Sprout in tow. I make sure to add extra silencing charms to the boundaries of our wards every time; those women together (including my demure wife) are worse than a pack of hyenas. Still, I brew the beer and they compliment it profusely, so I have no complaints.

My wife is still a lover of everything small and helpless. She drags me down to the beach at least once a week to watch the penguins make their way out of the water and into the grass. When a stray penguin found its way under the front tyre of our battered four wheel drive, she had me up all night searching for the spell that would link it with its mother.

A penguin.

Bloody hell.

I love her bleeding heart.

We have three cats and one yapping dog that stays outside. Mostly. She wanted a horse, so I drove south one day and came back with a lamb. She didn't take kindly to naming it 'Lunch', but the name stuck. Lunch was soon joined by Breakfast. Her latest mission is to convince me to go and buy her Dinner. I'm thinking about it.

Hermione goes out in the mornings and fills up the bird feeder, and birds of every size and colour flock to fill their bellies. She once even tried keeping fish, and I built her a fish tank large enough to satisfy her desire to 'free the poor things from their pet-store cages'. Until, somewhat inevitably when one considers my track record as a boy, they all ended up buried in the backyard. I have never, ever met a woman that couldn't stand to see a gold fish flushed down the toilet.

We don't talk about the fish anymore.

The plot of land we bought five years ago is far enough away that there are no neighbours in sight, but close enough to be able to drive to the store twenty minutes from here and still be home in time to make sure I make the breakfast and not Hermione. Merlin – that woman burns water. _Water._

I love her, and her terrible cooking.

I brew for the Magical school on the mainland, under a pseudonym (Hadrian Prince, nice to meet you) **.** Hermione – or should I say, Perdita Glover - has a part time position researching with the Australian Ministry; she's already hell bent on changing around a few of the Department names. My spitfire woman.

They've worked it out of course, our fake names; it helps that Hermione and I fall under the banner of recluses, rather than murderer and accomplice, thanks to Hooch's tell-all in the Quibbler a year after Riddle's demise. She put it so articulately – what was it…

"Love?" I call to Hermione who is painting on the dunes a few steps from the back door. She has charms to stop the cheap art paper from flying away in the wind that whips around us constantly here on the coast. I am standing on the balcony, having abandoned the casserole for the moment. She looks up and brushes a hair out of her eyes – a losing battle – and her gold wedding ring glints in the sunlight.

Always so beautiful.

"Hmm?" Hermione answers everything with 'hmm' these days.

"What did Rolanda say in the Quibbler again?"

Peals of laughter ring out through the air. Which is, of course, the entire reason for asking; Hermione always gets such a perverse kick out of quoting Hooch.

After a moment she turns to face me fully and says, "That Albus would've thrown himself off of the Tower if you didn't play your part."

I nod and dip my head. "Of course. Are you about finished?"

She cups her hand around her eyes to shade them from the late afternoon sun. "Are you?"

Without giving her an answer, I stroll back inside and turn down the heat on dinner. It will simmer in the oven for a couple of hours now. The dinner table is already set, with a single empty wine glass waiting for my one nightly indulgence.

I can hear my wife making her way up the stairs; she is slower these days, but I value my prick far too much to risk it being hexed off if I ever lose my head enough to bring it to her attention.

"So you have a spare thirty minutes or so…" her voice says softly from behind me. Slim arms snake around my front; her nest of wild hair is buried between my shoulder blades. Her belly pokes into my back. Hands delve from my chest to trail a path lower, then lower still. After six years of marriage and a lifetime of waiting, the touch of her hand on my erection still pushes a hiss out of my mouth; there is none better suited to me than her. My Hermione.

"Thirty minutes…" I rumble and sigh as she begins to unbutton my jeans. "That's a bit… short."

Her giggles are muffled by my jumper, but I smile at them nonetheless. I'm too old for the floor now, and she's never been very flexible, so I lead her to the bedroom. A wave of my hand has half of the candles lit.

Our clothes are removed with the flick of a wand, and there my wife is, bare to me on the bed. I catch her eyes roaming over my chest and soon we have matching flushes of anticipation on our bodies from examining the other.

The first time we came together again after the enforced separation, I lasted three thrusts and two breaths. Mortified that I hadn't given her the attention that I had dreamed of giving her, I ran her a bath and left her in it for long enough to find a book that'd never be on the shelves in Hogwarts. Even looking at it sent my heart thudding and my cock twitching back to life.

A good book, that.

I like to think that since that hour of self-instruction, I've become a dapple hand at making my wife lose control.

She squeals when she sees the look in my eyes, something she's named "a sexy gleam" before. Too fucking right, wife.

I approach her squirming form, lacking only the purring to complement my prowl. She plays shy for a few long seconds, but the minute I touch her thighs and settle between them, her legs fall open with a pleased sigh that makes me groan in pleasure from the first touch of my tongue to the exact spot that will begin a sweet, sour rise within her.

My wife; my beautiful wife.

What did I do to deserve you?

Steady suckling has her writhing underneath me, and I catch the moment just in time to sink into her as she climaxes, her cries filling the room as eagerly as the way I fill her.

For a year I couldn't stop myself from pushing into her heat quickly; I was terrified that each time would be our last, and fixated on all of those years that I was forced to live without her.

But now – no. Now I take minutes, hours, to devour Hermione, to map her body, to memorise each new change that emerges on her skin. Because now every hour is followed by another, and there is nothing to take my sweet girl away from me. She is ensconced within my own skin, as I am hers.

Now, we have time.

* * *

 _fin._


End file.
